


Canonization

by iwillwalk500miles



Series: i'm so thankful (no longer painful) [2]
Category: RWBY
Genre: 'do you believe in destiny?', Angst, Angst and Tragedy, F/M, Falling In Love, I just love them, POV Second Person, Pyrrha Nikos-centric, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Trans Jaune Arc, achilles and joan of arc as two sides of the same coin, and also i've been drinking some 'loving pyrrha nikos juice', but they love each other!!, guess who's back on her bullshit?? it's me, i mean... she still dies, i'm still sad, it just doesn't work out, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22408978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwillwalk500miles/pseuds/iwillwalk500miles
Summary: All is well.(Except it’s not, because you walk up that tower to die, and you are all the better for it.)orthe one time pyrrha forgot to tell jaune she loved him, and the five times she didn'torachilles and joan swap places
Relationships: Jaune Arc/Pyrrha Nikos
Series: i'm so thankful (no longer painful) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612696
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Canonization

Time has always been difficult for you. You lose yourself, to training, to people, to the books you read—you lose yourself. It’s easy, slipping into the mold that has been created for you. Kind, but careful not to seem too kind, strong, but careful not to seem too strong. It’s easy, slipping into that mold—those preconceptions of people that you don’t even know—a winning smile and long awkward sentences, nothing that can be traced back to the rage that burns so badly inside of you. 

You deceive all these people, with your eye-catching armor and flame red hair, you deceive them so easily—but you can never seem to bring yourself to consider that you might be a liar. 

You remember sitting in front of the fireplace when you were young, watching the flames lick at the wood in rapid and smooth flickers of red and orange and yellow. You remember thinking of the hearth, the goddess of homes and love and family, the goddess who was kind in the face of a cruel and endless existence. 

So time is difficult for you, because—though others claim you are, claim that you will be—saintly is not something that will ever bestow itself upon you. 

And that’s that.

Except, _no_ —that _isn’t_ that. 

You’ve tried so, _so_ hard to be the hero other’s expect, to control the blistering anger inside of you. 

That’s why it’s so funny, you suppose, watching as you send the boy with sunshine yellow hair (the boy who screams for _you_ and begs for _you_ and _loves you_ ) out of the courtyard, through the sky. It’s funny that you lost track of the time when you pressed yourself against him, it’s funny—the idea that you have swapped spots with him. 

(It’s funny because Joan was the martyr—calm in the face of her demise, and Achilles was the fury—blistering hot and burning everything in his path before he was struck down.)

It’s funny, you think wistfully, so so funny that you’ve traded places with him. It’s so funny that you’d forgotten to tell him that you loved him.

(Except it’s not, because you walk up that tower to die, and you are all the better for it.) 

The first time you tell him you love him, it is quiet and dark.

There was a story he used to whisper to you, your love, a story he painted about a great warrior who fought and died and spat in the face of the people who wronged him. He whispered, eyes bright and blue, about how people would see him— _Achilles_ —and know that they were better off throwing down their weapons than pursuing him. He whispered to you about there was only one who he would die for, only one worth saving— _Patrocles_ —one who was kind where he was not, one who would deceive the world if it meant that his love would save the ones who would die unnecessarily. And he tells of of another, not quite a villain, not quite a hero—a man who'd dared to love and stole away a woman he was never meant for. (Except she wasn't stolen, because she wasn't an object, she was a person who'd made a mistake and fallen in love with a man who was better off called boy.) He tells you of Paris.

(You wonder if you will ever meet a Paris.)

You listen, eyes wide—watching as he tells you this story, watching as his words scream of worship and fondness and a passion you knew lay dormant deep inside his chest. It’s different from you, different from your fire and the whispers of the faceless god in the hearth that had always seemed to care for you when your parents were busy. You long for a muted kind of glory and a desperate kind of love, the type only found in tales of endless tragedy, and he longs for the opposite—a life of faith and duty and breathless easy endearment. 

When he finishes telling his story, his face is kind, and it differs from all the men and boys you’ve met before.

You ask him, silently, if that is what he wants to be. (You don’t know what you would think if he said yes, what you would think if he revealed to you that he wanted Achilles, but you do know that you would do all in your power to give it to him. Only him.)

He looks at you for a moment, tilting his head so that strands of gold fall into blue (like they _sky_ ) eyes. He smiles, and tells you that the hero—the one who was angry, the one who was fierce and blistering and _strong_ —reminded him of _you._

(It shakes you to your core, the idea that he could see Achilles in _you_ , the idea that he could look past the persona you’ve created for yourself and see the fiery whirlwind of gold and metal and bravery that smiles when he bleeds.)

You don’t tell him that the other person—Patrocles—reminded you of _him._ But you do look upon him, look upon his eyes and know that you love him dearly, and you tell him so with a smile and a gentle hand on his cheek, and ask him if he believes in destiny.

He startles, shaken, then shrugs and mumbles that he doesn’t know.

And all is well.

(Except it’s not, because you walk up that tower to die, and you are all the better for it.)

The second time you tell him you love him, you’re whispering words of the hearth. 

You tell him of the lightning, of the ocean, of the world of shadows and you tell him of the heavens and the green life that surround them. Then, quietly, because the only time your goddess is worshiped is quietly—you tell him of the first child born to a cruel father and fierce mother, you tell him of all the siblings that came after her, you tell him that she is forgotten and she doesn't mind, you tell him that she loves all, even those who would not speak to her.

You tell him that you hate her.

You tell him that you wish she was fierce, that you wish she would walk with her siblings, back straight and chest out—that you wish she could bring herself to say no.

Then you tell him that you love her.

You tell him that she unbelievably soft in a word of unbelievable cruelty, you tell him that she was born to be sharp, that she was made for wars—but that she decided she’d really rather stay home. You tell him that in a war against parents and aunts and uncles, she fought crueler than any other of her siblings because she knew love, and she knew that her siblings—the heroes and the warriors and the queens—would need her, and she made sure that none of them could ever forget it. 

Then you tell him of her nephew.

With eyes of flame and a thirst for blood, with war and with his unquenchable thirst for conflict. With his cruelty and his quick temper and aggressive words. You tell him of her nephew, and how despite all these things, she loved him. 

You tell him of her entire family, tell him of the minor gods and the major titans, of the giants and the earth and the sky and the monsters and the people made of clay. 

You tell him everything about you without telling him anything about you.

Somehow he understands.

And all is well.

(Except it’s not, because you walk up that tower to die, and you are all the better for it.) 

The third time you tell him you love him, he whispers to you about his sisters.

He tells you of his family, he tells you how they love him, and how he loves them. It makes it hard for you to listen, not because of anything bad, just because you’d never quite seen him like this before—openly passionate and loving, and it makes it hard to hear his words when your eyes are so focused on his face. 

He whispers words of honor, whispers words of war and sacrifice and duty—and you love him, you love him so deeply. He tells you these things, and you can't bring yourself to say anything back, so you draw him close, and makes sure that even if he doesn’t believe in himself, you always will. 

His nose pressed to your neck, his hair tickling your face—it makes you wonder. It makes you wonder of a life you long to have, one of glory and love—but not the fame you already have. You want _real_ glory, the type that makes it so people will remember your name for generations to come, the type that would never fade, the type that would have teenagers speak your name in whispers as the sun sets, the type that doesn’t hinge on the fact that you’re good and avoiding hits, the type that doesn’t say that you’re “the untouchable girl.”

You don’t know anymore how anyone could look at you and not see Achilles.

And all is well.

(Except it’s not, because you walk up that tower to die, and you are all the better for it.) 

The fourth time you tell him you love him, the trees have shed their yellows and reds and oranges, and he is looking at you with stars in his eyes.

It’s hard, seeing him look at you like that—like he _loves_ you, when it is so clear that he will never, that he wouldn’t dare to love his hero, his _Achilles._ The leaves have turned orange and yellow, the sight making it harder and harder to look upon him. It lives in your chest, that raging inferno, that love and hate and longing that destroys you so often when you look in his eyes and pretend you see love.

(It is love and it’s shrouded by his worship, but of course—you don’t know that.) 

You laugh softly, brushing his hair from his face and snagging a yellow leaf from his hair. He blinks, looking affronted by the piece of the tree above you—and this only makes you laugh harder. 

You grip another leaf, pluck it from the branch that hangs above you, and intermingle it with Jaune’s hair. 

He screws up his nose, and asks _why_? 

Because I love you. You want to say. Because I love you so much and it eats me on the inside.

You say it’s because it blends with his hair, because it’s him—because it’s Jaune—and it may as well be a love confession.

Something flashes in his eyes, and he asks if it’s because you love autumn.

You smile, small and sad, and say yes. You turn to look away from him, to look at something other than the young man you’ve become so enamoured with, and silently ask him if he believes in destiny.

For the first time, he says nothing.

And all is well.

(Except it’s not, because you walk up that tower to die, and you are all the better for it.) 

The fifth time you tell him you love him, it is quiet and dark.

He whispers to you, tells you a story about a hero (a child actually) who had stood unmoving in her beliefs, who had seen that she was to die—and moved forward anyway. He whispers her name—Joan—whispers how her hair wasn’t sunshine yellow, whispers how her eyes weren’t blue, whispers how she was just a girl, a girl who loved and hoped and prayed—he whispers to you these words, quiet and sad. He tells you that she belonged to a tragedy, that her death was entirely avoidable, that the people in power (the old men) around her had seen her and seen _nothing_ but a tool. And he tells you that she didn’t mind, he tells you that she moved forward anyway, and that the common people around her had seen her and _loved_.

You tell him she reminds you of him. 

It startles him, startles him more than when he’d whispered to you about the other hero, shrouded in flame. 

You think of Ozpin, of his maidens, and how you had cursed him in your mind only once, and asked him what you had to do. And you think of the way that old man had looked at you, that old man who’d seen more than you’d ever hope to, and asked you to join him in his eternity. 

(You wonder if he sees you as a tool, wonders if he thinks that you are someone you’re not, and realize it’s a stupid question. Of course he thinks of you this way, he looks at you and sees _Joan_ , not who you are, not _Achilles_.)

And so, because you treat every night that you love him like it’s your last, you grip his shoulders and lean into him, because for the first time in your life you’re not _okay_ with being someone else’s mold, because you know that Ozpin has asked for your life, and you’d given it to him without prompting. You grip Jaune tight, even as he wraps his arms around you and asks what’s wrong, you grip him tight.

You ask him, shaking and shivering, if he believes in destiny.

For the first time, he says yes.

All is well.

(Except it’s not, because you had walked up that tower to die, and you are not a better person for it. Because you are rage, an inferno and uncontrolled, and you hate that someone had asked you to be something you weren’t and you hate that someone had asked you to be something you were. You love Jaune. And he knows now, that’s all there is to it.) 

You think of him, of his lack in destiny and his lack of belief and his lack of an always—and for a moment you are with him again, clutching him tight moments after he’d told you about the girl who had been kissed by a saint and had been martyred by the people she’d sworn to protect. 

You ask if she believes in destiny as your vision starts to fade. Your Paris smiles, saint like and victorious and almost sad, and says yes.

**Author's Note:**

> what's this???? i love pyrrha and i love writing tragedies??? i mean... yea


End file.
